Work Text:
“You should try it,” Casey’s therapist suggests gently, waiting for her to take the kickboxing flyer from her outstretched hand.
Casey takes it, puts it in her shirt pocket, but doesn’t say anything about it, feeling her mouth twist. She can only think about Claire insisting that her stupid karate lessons at the King of Prussia Mall would be of any use against the guy. Slapping and elbowing Hedwig hadn’t exactly worked out. They hadn’t even known what they were dealing with then. A shotgun hadn’t stopped him, let alone half-assed martial arts.
She ends up going to the class, though. She doesn’t really think about it, and then she’s there, in Chucks, workout pants and a soft, baggy t-shirt over one of her standard camis.
It’s kind of stupid at first. Lots of repetitive drills. But she still feels good when it’s over, so she keeps going.
Eventually, they actually get to hit things. Casey wraps her hands at first, and then gets actual gloves. And she’s good. She’s good at hitting the bag with her leg, same place every time, getting praise from the instructor which she pretends to shrug off but can’t help smiling at when no one’s looking.
But there’s nothing like really connecting with the bag with her fists. Once she gets into a rhythm, she wears herself out, exhausts herself until she’s panting and dripping sweat.
She starts wearing just a sports bra rather than a baggy shirt and a cami, with her hair up because it’s easier that way, and silently dares anyone to stare at her scars, let alone say anything about them. But no one does.
Her calf twinges sometimes, but it’s not too bad.
She gets her own bag, hangs it up herself in Officer Clarke’s basement, and lets loose on it. She starts liking that better than the classes—she can be alone, and it’s there when she wants it, at home—or, at least, where she lives now. On days when she’s feeling numb (like she’s floating through space, like she doesn’t exist) the body-shaking impact, the sound ringing in her ears, brings her back. Usually.
Sometimes she feels like she won’t be able to stop hitting the bag, sometimes she feels like despite the gloves or the wrap her knuckles are swelling, the skin will break and start bleeding, she’ll be smeared with blood… but it’s never actually that bad, she finds, when she looks at her bare hands. Maybe there’s a little swelling. She flexes her knuckles and doesn’t mind the pain.
Maybe she’s sore all over. But then she just takes a hot bath with Epsom salts, and on those nights she sleeps like a rock, without waking up screaming or finding her pillow wet with tears.